


step into the light

by fondleeds



Category: Harry Styles (Musician), One Direction (Band)
Genre: Ambiguous/Open Ending, Dreams and Nightmares, Hallucinations, Horror, M/M, Song: Lights Up (Harry Styles), Thriller
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-10-11
Updated: 2020-10-11
Packaged: 2021-03-07 22:02:29
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 10,163
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26944876
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/fondleeds/pseuds/fondleeds
Summary: The shadowy blob of his reflection is his closest company at present, more defined now that he’s nearer to the water. Which is completely still. Glasslike. There’s a sheen coming from it that didn’t appear so glossy before. He peers down at himself. The reflection seems, quite suddenly, corporeal.Harry doesn’t realise it’s eyes are closed until they snap open to stare back at him.-Harry and team head to Cancun to filmLights Up.It doesn't go as planned.
Comments: 13
Kudos: 34





	step into the light

**Author's Note:**

> happy 1 year anniversary to lights up and happy harryween! 🎃
> 
> i wrote this over the past few days and it was a lot of fun. also loosely inspired by this [wonderful art](https://archiveofourown.org/works/21811774) by the always wonderful crurulbys.
> 
> enjoy!!

It’s far too hot of a night for fog, but Harry can’t bring forth an alternate explanation for the silken mistiness that shrouds the empty street. There must be a storm close by. Very close. He holds his hand up to a bright streetlight and passes it through a pearlescent cloud. Little drops of moisture cling to his palm, joining the beaded sweat that coats the rest of his body.

He swipes the back of his hand over his top lip. Maybe it’s not fog, but steam, like the Cancun heat is suddenly sauna-baked and stuck under the heaviness of the night. And it is heavy, the sky huge and dark and empty of stars. This morning he could hear the pulse of waves from the beach and the sound of the city waking.

It’s quiet now. Even his own breath, leaving his mouth in smokey puffs, is inaudible.

Ahead, the set is still and abandoned. Big spotlights, chairs for the crew, stagnant cameras left on their dolly’s, cables hung to and fro between set pieces like spiderwebs. It must be late. Everyone has gone off to bed, to rest and recharge and prepare for another day of sun and giddy excitement and shooting.

Harry missed the memo. He’s all done up, looking pretty, ready to go.

And the street is empty, steamy, and space-vacuum silent.

He treads closer, squinting—except that there’s nothing to squint against aside from the streetlights and they’re dimming rapidly with every step he takes, their fluorescent blue shrinking away to bulbs the size of bruised blueberries.

His eyes are gritty. Fog, steam…dust?

He wipes at his face, skin scratchy, and stumbles up the street on wobbly legs. It could almost be classified as careening if there wasn’t a distinct pull in his chest guiding him somewhere else. A new omphalos of certainty, a shelter from this deserted uneasiness.

He spots a rectangle of warmth slanting out into the night, and goes to it willingly.

He finds a door. The handle is hot to the touch, almost burning. Steam fizzles from his hand but there’s no pain. He swings the door open and peers inside. After so long in the dark the new light that bursts into his vision is a direct glance into the sun.

He recognises the room, and the giant array of white and lavender flowers decorating it. The mirrors. The cream curtains. The jewel-green floor.

He also recognises himself. There he is in a pair of boots and white shorts and boxing gloves, sitting on a chair far across the room. Head hung down. Shoulders curled in. A posture of resignation.

There he is again, in flowing purple with arms crossed. Sprawled on the floor in pointe shoes. Stolid and still in a lace dress, staring unwaveringly into the mirror.

None of them acknowledge his presence. All of them are dripping wet.

There’s another door diagonally across the room from where Harry stands now. It opens. Another version of himself enters, ethereal and graceful dressed in white. It looks directly at him with a crooked grin.

“Finally,” it says. “You’re here.”

Harry’s vision shrinks, a churning tumult of micropsia and macropsia that burns his pupils. The perspective of the room bows and stretches. The new Harry is still at the other door but their noses could be touching. Their bodies are elasticised.

“Where?”

Each Harry shifts their gaze to stare, five pairs of eyes, unblinking.

-

“Did anybody else have _really_ strange dreams last night?”

Harry pitches this question to the table over breakfast. They have an amazing fruit spread that looks as inviting as any meal he’s ever been enticed by, but he’s still too unsettled to eat. He spent ages in the shower this morning, just trying to get his skin to stop itching. Hot and cold all at once. If he ends up getting some kind of flu while they’re here he’ll be pissed.

Jeff pushes a glass of orange juice towards him. “Drink. Eat your fruit. You’re probably dehydrated and all loopy from the sun yesterday. I _told_ you to wear sunscreen.”

Pouting, Harry presses his knuckles into his pink cheeks.

In the moment, he was way too excited and exhilarated with the shoot kicking off to even think of that. They spent most of yesterday on the beach, and he’d ended it soaked through with seawater and salt, filled with a palpable buzz, staring out to the lavender sunset. Any lingering tiredness from meetings and the flight and a busy day became an afterthought, and he attributed those off feelings to the nerves. He’s undoubtedly better at keeping those at bay as of late.

All it took was getting dressed up and near a body of water and those slithers of trepidation became sea-foam, crushed underfoot and retreating with the tide.

Now, come morning, the burn has mostly faded against his tan, though his nose is still flushed red. He hasn’t had a legitimate heatstroke in years, not since the band was touring the US and he used to lay out in the sun with a towel over his head for hours if he needed space or time to unwind.

“Are you saying I don’t look cute like this?”

“If your skin starts to peel you’ll cry,” Jeff says. He scoops a mountain of watermelon into Harry’s bowl. “See how cute you feel then.”

Jeff’s scolding is always fretting that is actually doting. And Harry loves to be doted on. Encourages it, even if it gets him in trouble.

“There is never an instance in which I’m not cute,” Harry says, which reminds him: “Seriously, though. Nobody else had a weird dream?”

There’s a round of _no_ and _not really_ and _can’t remember_ from everyone. Extremely unhelpful.

He turns to Harry Lambert, who’s sitting beside him and scrolling through Instagram. “In my dream, I was wearing, like—this lacy suit? It was white?”

“Hm…” Harry L pulls up the folder on his phone that holds a majority of their looks and starts to sift through the pictures. 

Harry gestures to his neck, tying an invisible bow. “Pussy-bow, long sleeves? Did Harris make me something like that? It might have been a jumpsuit, actually…”

“The last piece Harris made is the blue look for the shoot here. I can ask them to do that for you though, love.”

Harry shifts in his seat. “I mean, I’d love that. But—”

“Wait!” Harry L holds up a hand, and shoves the phone Harry’s way. “This. The custom Gucci. With the gloves, right? Just like Prince. _Love_ her.”

The suit in the picture is on a mannequin and Harry’s seen it before and done one sort-of-fitting. It definitely isn’t the suit from the dream. But maybe it’s another iteration of it. A different version his sun-fried imagination made up.

“That’s it.” Harry sighs in relief and sits back. He stabs a piece of watermelon and watches the juice dribble. “My brain is whirring right now. Must be thinking way too far ahead.” 

He’ll meditate later, and maybe message his therapist if the lingering unease refuses to settle over the course of the day. He’s surrounded by good people here. He’s fucking _excited_ for what’s to come. One off dream won’t even come close to robbing him of that feeling.

-

There’s an unexpected peace in riding backwards on a motorbike along a dark and deserted road. The sound of the engine is roaring and intense, as is the sensation that comes from having that much power rattle his bones. It’s a bumpy ride and there’s very little light and he should be more worried about crashing or hitting a bump and falling to his doom.

Arms spread wide, warm air rushing around him and through him, Harry closes his eyes and lets his head fall back with a beatific smile.

He exhales deeply and inhales the petrol fumes and the nearby sea-air, the song pumping from the tracking Jeep nearby. It ebbs and flows into his consciousness, part of him, coming and going as though the frequencies are being swept and filtered, his own voice dipping and appearing again in waves.

It’s a similar feeling to the one he had on the beach, though even more freeing. A true kind of weightlessness. Only a bundle of giddy excitement is his tether, tying to him to the moment. And even then, even with that sparkling sensation running through him and the blouse fluttering over his chest just as his heart does against his ribs, if he closed his eyes for long enough and became completely swept up in the motions of the music, he could easily slip away.

The bike slows, red and blue bleeding into the dark and dreamy world he’s created behind closed eyes.

“I think we’ve got it!”

The voice through the megaphone is crackly and distant. They’ve been filming out here for so long but Harry doesn’t want it to be over. It’s like they’ve only just begun.

But there’s more to shoot. More to come. They glide past the police cars and the driver comes to a near stop to swing them around. There’s hardly any light. Harry peers out into the distance, where the road disappears beyond the line of fuzzy streetlights, swallowed up by the dark.

The longing to explore that unknown comes upon him unbidden and insatiable.

He almost taps the driver on the shoulder and begs him to turn back around. He doesn’t. He just keeps looking into the darkness, even as they pass the police cars and the flashing lights obscure his vision and the set-lights wash the world in bright white.

Later that night, as he settles into fluffy sheets and blinks against the shadows, he can’t help but feel as though there was something else out there, urging him closer.

-

“Okay up there, H?”

Harry wiggles a little in the harness, blood very slowly rushing to his head where he’s suspended on a tilt above the water.

“I’m perfectly fine, Jeffrey. Absolutely dandy.”

Usually they’d shoot this kind of thing in a studio, but their location is perfect and there’d been a unanimous agreement to harness (literally) the wonder and eagerness and vibes radiating from the first music video shoot of a new era. Harry trusts Vincent’s vision.

And besides, hanging above water like this has nothing on _Sign of the Times._

“You look…nauseous.”

“That’s just my face,” Harry says, shifting again. “You’d think that after the whole helicopter incident you’d be way more chill about this.”

It’s pitch dark out aside from the lights, the set poured over in claret. It skims the water and stirs it wine-sticky. Harry barely has a reflection, just a shadow of himself suspended and occasionally disappearing under the weight of red.

It’s mysterious and moody. He’s wearing one of his favourite jumpsuits. He feels sparkly and amazing.

“I’m the embodiment of chill,” Jeff says, though it’s lost under the sudden whir of the small crane-thing that’s dangling Harry over the water.

They film him at various heights and in various poses, some of which Harry probably has a little too much fun with. He enjoys Vincent laughing and trying to reign him in too much to stop completely. They switch the lighting a few times, darker, warmer, brighter, and in blue and orange for something different. There’s a clear cut vision for the video but the opportunity for b-roll and footage for quick cuts is good here, so Vincent leaves Harry hanging and Harry enjoys the floating.

After these shots he’s got to change out of his jumpsuit and lie back in the water, and the shots will be cut and layered together. As much as he’s enjoyed being in the air, the harness is starting to get uncomfortable. They begin lowering him soon enough and he stays as flat as possible so the bands don’t dig into his groin.

The crane jolts to a stop.

“What was that?” Jeff says immediately.

There’s an unintelligible murmur. Harry twists his head up to look, but the angle sucks for his neck.

“Nothing to worry about,” a crew-member says. “Just a little jam. We’ll raise it up and then lower it again. Needs a good pass.”

“Hurry! I’m starting to become untethered from reality,” Harry says, bicycling his legs in the air.

A ripple of laughter goes through the crew, more at ease now with his joking. It helps Harry, too. He has no problem being a bit of a spectacle, but he’d much rather be doing that with two feet firmly on the ground than suspended mid-air.

They raise the crane and lower it again, but the same thing happens.

Harry shifts in the harness. If he tears this jumpsuit he’ll genuinely mourn it. Sweat prickles along the edges of his burnt face. He shifts again, more carefully this time, head hanging down.

Genuine anxiety starts to poke and prod at his slight discomfort. Ever the lovely agitator.

“It’s not ideal if I have to film the whole video like this, but it’s a sacrifice I’m willing to make,” he says. Not as much laughter, this time around. Everyone is very focused on the crane.

“What’s wrong with it?” Jeff says, sounding distant, like he’s wandered over himself to tinker.

Harry tries to twist to look but it hurts this time. He’s been swaying like this for far too long.

He hangs his head and stares into the water, breathing steadily. It’ll be fine. The ground is right there. He’s not one thousand feet in the air, suspended from a helicopter. He’s in a little harness in Cancun with an entire team of people nearby. Nothing to stress over. No reason to fret.

The shadowy blob of his reflection is his closest company at present, more defined now that he’s nearer to the water. Which is completely still. Glasslike. There’s a sheen coming from it that didn’t appear so glossy before. He peers down at himself. The reflection seems, quite suddenly, corporeal.

Harry doesn’t realise it’s eyes are closed until they snap open to stare back at him.

“Jeff!” he barks, pulse-skyrocketing, flailing in the harness.

It’s his reflex to call out. But the reflex that tells him to get away as quickly as possible is what jolts him most.

“What’s—” Jeff starts, then reassesses. Often, it doesn’t matter exactly what’s wrong, just that the sooner it stops the better. Jeff will ask questions later. “Get him down. Somebody get him down, now!”

Harry heaves in a breath. The reflection is still there. Even as he struggles and tugs at the harness, it remains frozen, staring.

Wincing— _fuck, that hurts_ —Harry pulls himself upright and takes a swinging kick through the water. It explodes under his heel, splashing everywhere and all over himself, the outburst freezing everyone on set.

The crane finally drops with a heavy clunk. Harry tumbles and lands on his arse, half-submerged and tangled up in rope and harness.

He’d laugh at Jeff striding awkwardly through the water if he weren’t in a state of semi-shock. He doesn’t even know what just _happened._

“Are you hurt?” Jeff asks immediately, clutching his elbows. “Harry. Look at me. Are you—”

“I’m alright. I’m _fine_.” Harry waves him off and huffs out a shuddery, absurd laugh. “So much drama.”

The water, which he’d registered as being warm earlier, is like ice. But Jeff doesn’t shiver, doesn’t have a single goosebump on his bare arms. He’s in a t-shirt and jeans. Harry stands on shaky legs. Jeff helps him up and curses under his breath.

“Can someone come help me out here?” he calls over his shoulder, fiddling uselessly with the harness buckles. “Are you _sure_ you’re alright?”

“Is the jumpsuit ruined?”

“No…?”

Harry pushes his hair out of his eyes and raises his arms over his head so the crew can help him out of the harness, a first-aid officer not far behind to check him over.

“Then I’m swell,” Harry says, sighing in relief as the weight is lifted away. “Never been better.”

-

The flowers are starting to wilt. Purple ringed with green. White ringed with brown. And their petals, all dotted with cloudy pearls of water. Harry picks a white flower and spins it between his fingers, stroking the dampness. 

“Shame about those. They’re going to smell awful in a few days.”

Harry’s neck prickles. He stops spinning the flower.

“There’ll be more, though.” A hand by Harry’s cheek, picking a purple flower. It shrivels immediately in the familiar ringed fingers of it’s captor. “They alway bring more flowers.”

Other-Harry brings the dead flower to their nose and inhales. The white pussy-bow collar is tied in perfect symmetry despite it being soaking wet. The entire suit seems to fit better in it’s drenched and sticky state.

Harry stares, transfixed.

“Is that a sunburn or are you just thrilled by my company?” Other-Harry tilts their head coquettishly. “If it is a sunburn, I’d rather you lie to me. Let’s make a game of it.”

“Game of what?”

Other-Harry reaches out and plucks the white flower from Harry’s grasp. It too, just like it’s purple friend, curls in on itself.

“Lying,” Other-Harry says. They change the tilt of their head. “Sound fun?”

“Where is this place?” Harry says. His heart should be pounding, it _must_ be, but the _thud-thud-thud_ is only phantom. “What’s going on?”

Other-Harry frowns. “You’re not going to play along?”

Harry’s tongue is too big for his mouth. Any other questions have no room to wriggle out.

The longer they look at each other, the more sparkle Other-Harry seems to radiate. Eyes saccharine-sad, slowly crimping at the corners with mischief.

“I’m thrilled by your company,” Harry finally manages to say.

Other-Harry drops the dead flowers and pouts. “ _Bzz._ Wrong answer. You’re not very fun, are you?”

Harry can’t feel his heartbeat but he’s apparently still capable of feeling genuine offense. “I’m fun!”

“If you were, you’d have used a little reverse psychology, or something,” Other-Harry says, cocking a hip. “You’d definitely have told me it was sunburn as the lie. But you didn’t. And now I’m offended.”

“But you told me to—”

Other-Harry holds up a hand. All words of protest evaporate.

“Now you’re getting caught up in semantics,” Other-Harry says. They pause, raised hand snapping into a closed fist, and squint. “Is that what it is? Semantics?”

“I don’t…know…”

Other-Harry picks a new flower. The flowers they brush with their arm wilt away.

Harry is very suddenly aware of the entire room. A wave of nausea rolls through him with each turn of his head, like the twist of his gaze simulates that of a rocking boat. All those eyes watching on, observing this conversation. Observing him.

His already pink cheeks darken. Standing in front of this drooping tangle of flowers, it’s a wonder he doesn’t begin to wither away himself.

He stares out into the room. There’s a new version tonight. The sparkling jumpsuit. It’s stare, just like it’s four companions, is unnerving.

“Who are they?” Harry murmurs, risking a glance at the Other-Harry. He keeps thinking they’ll all flutter out of existence and he’ll be left here talking to himself. “Who are you?”

Other-Harry smiles at him. The world warps and they’re in the centre of the room. Harry’s head spins. The flowers are just a pinprick in his vision now.

“I’m you. All of us are you. We’re kindred spirits,” Other-Harry says dreamily, twirling a sad flower. “Friends of one another.”

“Friends…”

“Of course,” Other-Harry says, brightening. Without a word, the version of himself in the jumpsuit comes closer. Other-Harry tugs at the material. “This is lovely, and I know how much you adore it. I promise I’ll keep it around for a while. I know we aren’t really outfit repeaters, but I think this is one of those special occasions, hm? You trust me to take care of it, don’t you?”

The _yes_ is immediate, on the tip of his tongue. Other-Harry watches him expectantly but Harry swallows, which is near impossible with the lump in his throat, and remains silent.

The brightness in Other-Harry’s eyes dims gradually. They release the jumpsuit material like they’re flicking away a bug. “It’s rude to leave questions unanswered, you know. You won’t even try to duck and dive me?”

Harry shakes his head, neck stiff. His body is fighting itself.

“Wow.” Other-Harry’s gaze turns withering. They glare at Harry down the bridge of their nose. “You’re _really_ no fun.”

Harry finally snaps his eyes away, which burn so brilliantly they water. He blinks rapidly, lost and frantic, spinning around the room.

Once he can see clearly again and his head has stopped buzzing, he finds himself facing the mirror, standing beside the version of himself in the lace dress. The real body doesn’t move. The face blank. Eyes empty.

But the reflection follows his movements like an old painting. Harry drifts left to right, watching it watch him with it’s swinging eyes.

He steps closer and observes, for the first-time in this dream state, himself. He’s wearing blue. He knows this outfit, the suspenders and the shirt and the trousers. He’ll wear it for the shoot in a few days time.

He can see the other hims in the mirror, too, the dancer still sprawled nearby, the one in the purple suit blending in with the flowers.

The boxer is gone.

Harry blinks. When he opens his eyes after that rapid fire second, the reflection is no longer his own, but that of only lace.

“Easy there, Narcissus.” Other-Harry is right there, peering over Harry’s shoulder. They tuck a dead white flower behind his ear. “I wouldn’t get too close, if I were you.”

-

If there is a cure for twisted dreams and portent nightmares, it may just be this.

This being a group of sweaty and beautiful strangers, dancing and touching and posing for the camera.

Harry spent a little too long in hair and makeup today. It’s a wonder the concealer covering his inexcusable eyebags hasn’t slid all over his face in this heat. But he’s dealing with it. There are hands all over him and the song is being pumped through the speakers on set.

He loses himself in all of it, the music especially. It washes over him and whisks him away and when he returns the wave he’s riding is foaming up with this fun. Looking at the footage between shots, he finds himself smiling at how great everybody blends together, how wonderful Vincent is, and how much he wants to skip to the day it’s released so he can envelop himself in the joy of others, too.

The affirmation that he’s doing a good thing is sought after only in himself and a very small group of people he trusts to be truthful with him. He’s finding it in himself in spades right now, and he knows he isn’t alone in that feeling.

He embraces it fully, and hardly thinks about the dreams and the other selves all day.

-

_What’s with the pointe shoes?_

Groggy, he turns over and pushes his face into a pillow, teetering on the edge. It’s pulling at him.

_I’m practicing for later…_

_Later?_

_Later. I’m going to be a ballerina._

_What will you dance to?_

_I’m not allowed to say. I get to stay this time. I’ll be in trouble if I say…_

Stuffy hotel air. He sinks into it. Sinks further. Sinks into a full sleep.

-

Pink water. He crashes through it face down but there’s no sting. He just floats and stares into the nothing until the scene replays itself and he’s plunging down and sinking into it again. Over and over. Drifting lifelessly.

-

Waist deep in waves. Navy. Unbearable heat. Moonlight bouncing off sequins and reflecting pearls into the water.

He’s been here before, years ago, when it was shallow enough for him to sit.

It’s rising. It’s at his chin.

The sky used to be red and rich and apocalyptic. It’s so dark.

There’s a figure on the shore.

-

The entire world is shaky. Shaky? No…wavering. Rippling. His ears are stuffed with cotton. So is his nose. Why can’t he breathe, but is still able to breathe?

Water. That’s what it is. Surrounding him, pressing down on his chest.

Freezing. Suffocating ink. He can’t move a muscle.

He tries to blink against the weight of it. A colour. A familiar colour.

Claret.

He can’t move. He can’t move. He doesn’t remember closing his eyes, but he opens them again and stares up at himself.

The gluggy water turns into television static.

-

Harry wakes with a jolt, body rocking forward and back again, drenched in sweat.

He’s panting, like he’d stopped breathing for the duration of the dreams and now can’t manage to suck in enough air.

There’s a heavy weight over his hip and warm pressure like a palm spread over his tattoo, with skin so real and familiar that for one ludicrous moment he considers rolling over and saying Camille’s name. But it isn’t her. It hasn’t been her for a long time.

He’s sleep-deprived and unhinged. The palm is far too big.

He breathes heavily into the pillow and shifts.

Freezes.

It’s a miracle he doesn’t brain himself on the bedside table in his haste to scramble away, falling out of bed and managing to rip the entire sheet off with him. He flattens himself to the carpet and holds both hands over his face. And he stays there. For a long time. Breathing. Breathing. Breathing.

Eventually he manages to uncurl himself without a sound, and very slowly, rises to risk a glance over the edge of the mattress.

Of course, there’s nothing there. Just the pillow he’d been holding as he slept and likely abandoned in the middle of the night. Lumpy enough to look like a body. It’s a bad fucking habit, one he’s supposed to be shaking. Now it’s got him thinking there’s an actual person cuddling up behind him.

He closes his eyes and breathes out. For a second, it had felt so real. For a second, it had felt like…

“Fucking hell,” he sighs, covering his face again.

There’s no way. There’s simply no way any of that is possible. And it isn’t. The pillow is _right there._

In spite, Harry grabs for it and throws it across the room.

He tries to turn on the taps at the bathroom sink with shaky hands. He needs to wash his face. He’ll put on a lush serum that smells like heaven and helps him sleep. He’ll moisturize again because that’s what he deserves to do, and if he’s oily tomorrow he’ll powder his skin and it’ll be fine.

He pushes the plug down and starts to fill the sink, letting the water heat. He washes his face. Washes it again. Washes over his ears and the back of his neck, still hot to the touch from his restless sleep and that flash of anxiety.

He looks down into the sink and cups more water in his hands and looks up into the mirror.

The reflection is dripping.

Harry’s hands are still stuck under the tap, burning, steam rising up and fogging the glass.

 _That’s me,_ he reasons. They blink in tandem. They’re the same height, bent over the sink in the same way.

But the clothes are different. It’s himself from earlier in the day, wearing a white tank instead of the glittery shirt. And those pants…

“This is a dream,” Harry says calmly. The reflection’s mouth doesn’t even twitch. It’s face is gaunt, hair a mess, staring at Harry from weary-bruised eyes. “This is definitely a dream.”

The reflection shakes it’s head.

“This is a dream,” Harry repeats. He was supposed to be firm but his voice is very small.

“It’s not a dream.”

Harry reels away and smacks painfully into the door-jam, splashing water everywhere as he goes. As though they’re connected by a tether the reflection lurches forwards through the mirror as he retreats, like it’s going to come after him and grab him and drown—

It turns off the faucet with a squeak.

“What a waste,” it tuts. “After all that work you just did on tour?”

Harry sucks in a sharp breath. “What the fuck.”

“And what was with the shower this morning?” the reflection says. “Ten minutes, _really?_ ”

“What the _fuck._ ”

The reflection smiles, dirty and clearly delighted by Harry’s stupefaction. “What could have _possibly_ kept you occupied for so long…”

Harry presses his palms into his eyes. Then smacks them repeatedly into his forehead. “Wake up—wake up— _wake up._ ”

All is silent. Harry breathes in through his nose, out through his mouth, over and over. It’s okay. It’s a dream, and when he looks up the reflection will be his own. It’ll all be normal again.

He peeks through his fingers.

“Am I supposed to say ‘boo?’” the reflection asks.

Water drips over the edge of the sink, overflowing despite the tap being off. It’s running over the edges of the mirror too, down the walls, all over the floor and seeping into Harry’s feet and likely the carpet behind.

The reflection blows a damp strand of hair from it’s eye, still braced over the tapware.

“What do you want?” Harry says desperately. “Why do I keep having these fucked up dreams?”

“You’re not having fun?”

“No!”

“Okay, _okay._ ” The reflection shifts, both palms braced on the edge of the sink now, staring at Harry intently. “I don’t have long. So listen carefully.”

“What?”

“I’m here to warn you.”

“What?”

“I’m here to warn you—”

“I heard what you said!” Harry snaps, then covers his face and groans. “Sorry—Jesus Christ. I’m apologising to my own reflection.”

“You need to be careful,” the reflection says.

“Of what?”

The reflection seems to freeze for a moment. Distantly, Harry hears a crackling sound. A boot on brittle glass.

“Don’t let it trick you,” the reflection says quickly, pushing itself back into the confines of the mirror. “You’ll have to wait for a turn that may never come. Mine never did.”

“What does that mean?” Harry says, beyond confused. “Turn for what?”

The crackling sound intensifies. The reflection whips it’s head around, clutching itself.

“Break the mirror.”

“ _What!?_ ”

“Now!”

Harry grabs the closest object of weight he has—a bottle of _Tobacco Vanilla_ perched on the edge of the vanity—and hurls it.

Right before the mirror loses its form completely, Harry sees the reflection staggering back through the splintered glass, a third hand on it’s shoulder.

The mirror shatters. Harry brings his arms up to shield his face as shards of it go flying. It litters the floor, tiny pieces spread like confetti all over the tiles, in the bath, bobbing in the full sink. Among the mess are the amber remnants of what once was his cologne. The heady cloy of it being unleashed all at once is headache-inducing.

The tap gushes like the reflection never turned it off at all. Glass-glinting water spills over the edge of the sink to add to the mess.

Harry brings a hand to his mouth, staring at the carnage he’s caused in complete shock.

“Shit,” he whispers. He doesn’t move, too scared to cut the soles of his feet. Already a few tiny scratches bloom watery-red atop them, where glass has ricocheted and caught on delicate skin.

Someone bangs aggressively on the door.

Harry remains frozen in place. What if he’s still dreaming? What if he’s not? How the hell is he going to explain this?

“Harry!” Another series of knocks, far more frantic. “Harry, open this door now!”

Jeff. Harry sighs and rubs over his eyes, and carefully tiptoes out of the mess.

“What the hell was that crash?” Jeff is on him immediately once the door is open, checking him over, the furrow in his brow severe. He looks at Harry’s feet for a long time, then back up to his face, eyes flicking everywhere. “Dunk your head in the sink, or something?”

Harry can’t find any words, so he doesn’t say anything. Jeff huffs and steps around him and heads straight for the bathroom, where bright light is spilling out into the heavy shadows that crowd the bedroom.

“Jesus, H!”

Harry treads closer, arms wrapped over his stomach. Jeff must have rushed over here because his feet are awkwardly stuffed into a pair of vans, the heels collapsed. He’s wobbling through the mess like a drunken ballerina. He turns off the sink and puts his hands on his hips, surveying the sorry state of the bathroom.

Harry might find it entertaining if he didn’t feel like he was on the edge of some kind of breakdown.

“It was an accident,” he finally says, which does not at all seem like a plausible excuse. How _does_ one accidentally shatter an entire mirror? “Must have knocked it, all clumsy like. Couldn’t sleep.”

“Why’s that?” Jeff asks. “Are you okay?”

Hit with sudden exhaustion, Harry sinks down onto the edge of the mattress. It’s too soft. Most hotel beds are. Like they’re going to swallow him up.

“Just…” he closes his eyes briefly, “had a really weird dream.”

“ _Again?_ ” Jeff begins to pace. “We should take you to a doctor. We can suspend filming. We have the plans in place for contingencies like this—”

“I’m _fine,_ Jeffrey.”

A _contingency_ is not exactly the word Harry would use to describe his current situation. Usually he loves Jeff’s preparedness and his commitment and most importantly, his caring friendship. But Harry is consumed with a standoffishness that rarely sees the light of day.

“H?”

“What?” Harry snaps, curling his arms over his middle. He’s shivering. Why is he shivering?

He raises his quivering hands out in front of him, limbs liquid and sickeningly heavy. From the fluorescent blue of the bathroom he can make out the purple veins in his wrists in the dark, stark against pale skin. His fingertips are shrivelled like he’s been holding them under water.

Gingerly, he reaches up to feel his hair. His stomach drops. That would explain the itchiness, and the prickling sensation that keeps scuttling down his spine. Shaky pearls of water slide from his sopping hair and roll languidly over his bare skin.

There’s not a trace of heat or humidity left in the room.

It’s an icebox.

“Why the hell are you all wet?”

-

Harry sleeps past his alarm the next morning but doesn’t really sleep.

He has more snippets of lucid dreams. His head pounds, overcome with the lingering odor of cologne, and of dead flowers. He keeps rolling over and feeling them stuck to his skin but when he jolts awake and scrabbles at himself there’s nothing there and nothing in the sheets no matter how many times he stands and strips the bed.

The hall outside bustles with movement for a while, but eventually it goes quiet and he knows the set is likely full of crew, waiting on him. Jeff comes in to check on him a few times. Harry complains of a migraine and apologises over and over. He can’t figure out what’s real right now but the guilt roaming freely in the pit of his stomach is as real as it gets.

Jeff tells him to stay in bed until he’s feeling better, and leaves him with ice-water and tablets and a promise to call him if he gets any worse, off to sort out the crew and coordinate the schedule for the rest of the day.

Harry drifts in and out of consciousness, head throbbing until it’s suddenly not. His ears ring.

He clenches his eyes shut, and when he opens them he’s upright and staring down at his own body, lying in a puddle on the floor, skin blue.

“You’re early.” Other-Harry slides between them and smiles charmingly, like there isn’t a dead body in their presence. The ballerina is playing with it’s limp hair. “Bit of an unfortunate circumstance, that one.”

The remaining Harry’s are omnipresent. The version of himself in purple has vanished.

“What are you doing to me?” Harry says, but he doesn’t hear himself say it. The muscles in his face pull and stretch.

“To you, or to _you?_ ” Other-Harry says, giggling at their own joke. Harry doesn’t laugh. Exasperated and apparently pissed at Harry’s lack of humour, they adjust the pussy-bow and smooth down their shirt with prim tugs. “Nothing. Nothing at all.”

“It’s _something._ ”

“What exactly _are_ you accusing me of?” Other-Harry questions. They smirk. “Because you’re only accusing yourself.”

“I’m not you.”

“But I’m _you,_ aren’t I?” Other-Harry dips their head side to side. “Take a good look.”

Harry’s eyes burn like he’s staring into a fire. Standing too close.

“Go back to sleep, sweetheart,” Other-Harry says, and nudges the body on the floor with their foot. “I’m busy.”

-

He wakes with a breath. Sunlight is pouring through the curtains. It’s two in the afternoon and he’s drenched in sweat. On shaky legs, he rises and heads straight for the shower.

The place where the mirror was is still empty but the room has been cleaned.

He stands under the spray for a long time, until he remembers what the reflection said and is immediately struck with a fucked up sense of shame. _If my reflection said it, maybe I thought it._

But that’s bullshit. It’s all bullshit.

He hates being the one to let everyone else down. He’s got a job to do. He turns up the heat and lifts his face to the spray.

-

It’s easier to compartmentalise while he’s on set. He has distractions—but that’s a word he hates to use. Nothing about this is a distraction. This is his art, and he’s got to submerge himself in it fully. That’s what he’s here to do.

So he does.

Much like the day they filmed with all the extras, just hearing the song resets an internal equilibrium he’s been unable to locate, let alone attempt balancing. The joy comes to him eventually even if it’s edged with exhaustion. He sings under his breath and revels in the lights and looks back at the footage.

He’ll admit only to himself that he focuses little attention on his presence on the frame, and instead on the background, looking for signs of ghosts.

The late start means it grows dark quickly. Harry didn’t expect them to have a _long_ day, but he knows there’s more on the schedule, and he knows he saw Harris’ outfit for him hanging in one of the production tents earlier.

So it doesn’t make sense that the crew have started packing up, switching off the spotlights and rolling cables and collecting their notes from the day.

“Aren’t we staying out to film those spotlight shots?” Harry asks Vincent, who’s gathering up his things and checking over the last of his notes while assistants mill about.

Vincent glances at him fleetingly, absorbed in whatever he’s marking off. “What do you mean?”

“The outfit Harris made me,” Harry explains. “I saw it hanging. I thought we might be shooting that part tonight. There’s only a few days left.”

Vincent pauses, and shoots Harry a look from under his brows. “We’ve already filmed it.”

“Oh…?” Harry says weakly.

Vincent stares.

“Sorry. Migraine, and, um. Not sleeping so good,” Harry rambles. “Must have forgotten.”

He knocks his knuckles against his head. Vincent does a poor job of hiding his bewilderment.

“Are you feeling alright?” He closes the notebook with a _snap._ “We were supposed to film it tonight, but yesterday you suggested we push the schedule ahead. You said you had ideas for new material in the extended cut that you wanted to discuss later. You were quite adamant about it, actually.”

All the blood drains from Harry’s face in a trickle. It’d be physically impossible to hear it happening, but he has no other explanation for the slick, unsettling sound that starts to rush through his ears. The hairs on the back of his neck rise.

“I…” Harry opens his mouth, closes it.

There is a black void in his memory. He has absolutely no idea what Vincent is talking about.

“Can I see the footage?” he asks, meek.

Vincent loads up the master harddrive, running it from his computer. Harry looks at the screen over Vincent’s shoulder as he scrolls through the files, pictures and videos alike captured. Already, Harry’s stomach turns at the little thumbnails he can see.

And then there’s the footage.

It’s him. No doubt it’s him illuminated in that beaming light, dressed in that special blue.

_What the fuck. What the fuck. What the fuck._

“Looks good,” Harry manages to say.

Vincent pauses the video. “You don’t seem so sure? We can go over ideas in the morning if you’re not vibing with—”

“No!” Harry blurts. He takes in a gulp of air. “No. It’s…”

His gaze wavers over Vincent’s shoulder. On screen, Harry is paused, arms by his sides, staring straight into the camera. He shudders and pushes back from the chair.

“It’s great. It’s perfect!”

Vincent doesn’t seem convinced, but Harry thanks him and wishes him goodnight and scurries off before he can express any more concerns or accidentally offend him any further.

Harry should find Jeff. He should call his therapist. He should…do _something._ He knows he should ask for help. He wants help. So why can’t he let himself ask?

Dreams are one thing. Twisted reality is another. But fugue? Actual gaps in his memory? Harry doesn’t know how to begin figuring that out. He isn’t sure he wants to. If he leaves it alone, it might leave him alone, too.

That’s wishful thinking, though.

Deep down he knows that whatever this thing is, it’s latched itself to him completely. And if he really allows himself to dig far enough, he might admit that he can’t stop thinking about it, either.

-

The flowers look like candle wax. Melted, mushed, solidified in puddles against the shiny floor. The smell of rot is beyond nauseating.

Harry bends down and picks a dead flower. It turns to filthy water in his hands and trickles between the space of his fingers.

“Told you so.”

“Why’d they have to die so fast?”

“There’s no oxygen in dreams.”

Harry shoots a look askance at Other-Harry, who’s grinning and clearly teasing.

“Unless you think this isn’t a dream,” they say, and knock their hip against Harry’s. The touch is solid and real. “Well, what’s the verdict?”

Harry’s gaze travels sluggishly. Only the ballerina and his jumpsuited self remain and the room is both too big and too small. There’s no sign of himself in Harris’ outfit.

And then there’s the reflection.

Harry only has to meet it’s gaze and they’re suddenly nose to nose.

It’s face is blank and there’s no expression in it’s eyes. But it keeps watching him. It follows his breath, and his sway, and the anxious twitch of his hands.

Harry blinks. His hands aren’t twitching on their own accord. He’s following the reflection.

Icy fingers cover his eyes and pull him away.

“Silly,” Other-Harry laughs, mouth pressed up to his ear. “You’ll play games with that thing but not with me?”

Harry twists out of their grasp and hugs himself. “Don’t touch me!”

“Why?” Other-Harry says, hands outstretched with wiggling fingers. “Too real for you?”

Harry shakes his head and backs away. “You’re terrifying.”

“Aw.” Other-Harry pouts. “Don’t put yourself down.”

When they smile, there’s a stickiness about it. Gone is the dazzling sparkle. Harry can see the beguiling eeriness behind it now. Each word drips in it.

“What do you want from me?” Harry questions. He throws his arms out, gesturing to the room, to the various versions of himself still left watching on with intent. “What the fuck is happening here?”

“You _must_ be new,” Other-Harry says, stepping closer. “Usually we’ve figured it out by now. The last one caught on far too quickly for it to be any fun. We’re not always so entertaining to mess with.”

_This is all in my head. All in my head. All in my head._

Harry cups his skull firmly and presses down. Even to his own ears it sounds as though he’s trying harder to convince himself of the very fact. Other-Harry knows it too. Their smile only grows.

“Folie à deux, sweetheart,” they say, and reach out to pull Harry’s hands away, caressing his temples. The corner of their mouths lifts. “Though I think folie en famille suits us much better.”

-

The outfit is waiting for him the next morning, hung innocent and all by its lonesome on the rack.

Harry stares at it.

He hasn’t slept. He spent most of the night sat up in bed with his knees to his chest. Many times, he imagined himself standing up and going down the hall and knocking on Jeff’s door. He scrolled through his phone contacts until his eyes felt like they were going to fall out of his head. He came up with numerous scenarios in which he is not losing his mind but simply stressed about the upcoming months, but then realised he hasn’t been stressed about the upcoming months at all.

Until the dreams.

Putting the suit on is mechanical. A robotic sequence constantly short-circuited by trepidation. Trousers, fumbling with the zip. Shirt, fumbling with the buttons. The suspenders give him grief. He adjusts everything and pushes his hair back and glances in the mirror for only a second, though that minuscule glance is enough to make his heart gallop.

It’s sundown. The street is dark. The sky is purple.

Purple, not black. Not like the dreams.

_Not a dream. Not a dream._

_Real. I’m real. This is real-real-real._

Tonight, they’re filming in the room.

They start out on the street. Dust. Those bright headlights. Harry’s skin is tacky, weighed down with sweat and makeup. His pulse is pumping wildly.

It only worsens as they move to the room, where the flower display is bright and sweet and very alive. Just a normal room with mirrors and cream curtains and a jewel-green floor and only one Harry instead of seven haunting alternatives.

Sundown. Purple sky. Set-lights. Jeff and Vincent and the crew all behind him.

Everything is normal. It’s all as it should be.

_Not a dream. Real._

Harry turns. A black nothingness greets him where the street and dozens of people should be.

“It’s a wrap today, isn’t it?”

“I want to wake up.”

“You can’t wake up if you’re not dreaming.”

“I want to wake up.”

“There’s still so much to do. So many stones left unturned.”

Harry closes his eyes. He doesn’t want to look. He’s too terrified to look.

“Oh, c’mon. Did I scare you that much?”

Harry shakes his head.

“Open your eyes.”

He does. He’s in the middle of the room. His ears are ringing.

“You’re not real,” he says. “You’re not real.”

Other-Harry puts both hands on their hips and cocks a brow, amused, leaning in, playing their little game of subterfuge.

“You’re not real?”

“No, you—” Harry’s chest heaves. His mind is scrambling and tripping over itself to find the answers. “You’re twisting my words. You’re twisting everything up!”

“How could I, if I’m not real?” Other-Harry grins. “How do you suppose that works?”

Again, it takes Harry far too long to say anything. He can sense Other-Harry revelling in it, coiling up like a snake and just waiting to sink their teeth into whatever comes next.

“You don’t exist,” Harry says, pointing a shaking finger. “You can’t do a thing outside of this room. I’m the one who’s been outside. I’m the one who exists in front of other people. Not you. You’re just—. You’re a projection. They’re all projections!”

“Interesting theory,” Other-Harry says dryly. “Very thought out. Just like those plans you gave Vincent, hm? What _did_ that entail, I wonder?”

Harry’s skin prickles.

“Really, I’m interested,” Other-Harry continues, unwavering. Their eyes are slits. “Do tell. Because I heard a little rumour that the shoot has been extended a few days to cover all this dazzling new material you came up with.”

The more Harry tells himself this isn’t happening the less he believes it. Everything had felt so distant and far away at first, but the intense palpations of his heart are demanding and sure, no longer feeble echoes.

He tries desperately to search through his memories for any morsel of information, but it’s blank.

Blank. Blank. Blank.

“No,” he murmurs, and puts his head in his hands, taking in huge breaths. “No. No. None of this is real. None of this is real.”

“ _That_ line of thinking certainly won’t help you to—”

“Enough!” Harry shouts, and in a move that surprises even himself, lurches forward to shove at Other-Harry’s chest.

He’s never actively tried to touch them and he half-expects and half-hopes that his hands will meet air and he’ll simply fall through them. The white jumpsuit is damp and cold under his palms. As is the firm and very real-feeling body that lies beneath it. Other-Harry only stumbles back two steps, hardly breaking their composure.

Harry stares, arms still outstretched, mouth agape.

“Well,” Other-Harry huffs. “That was rude. And _very_ out of character, even for the worst of us.”

“Oh, God,” Harry says, barely a breath.

The room seems to be shrinking in size, just as Harry feels as though he’s shrinking into himself.

Other-Harry takes a step forward. Harry takes a step back.

“You think you’re better than me, is that it? You think you can push me around?” Other-Harry says, voice edged with bitter laughter. They take another step. Harry retreats in turn. “Only one of us deserves the spotlight. Why should someone who doesn’t know who they are be keeping it away from me? Why should it be _you?_ ”

“I don’t care about the spotlight!” Harry says. He sounds like he’s begging. “That’s not who I am. It’s not who we are!”

Other-Harry pauses. Subtle triumph ignites behind their eyes.

Harry freezes up. “No! I didn’t mean—”

“We?” Other-Harry muses. “I’ll admit, that might have sounded funny coming from you days ago. Now you’re just like the rest of them.”

“I’m real–”

“But you told me none of this is,” Other-Harry says. Another step. Another. Backing Harry up. He bumps into the mirror, no where else to go. “All I’ve done is try to convince you.”

“No,” Harry says, because he can conjure no defence. “I’m nothing like you. I’m _nothing_ like you.”

If he is powerless to all else, he’ll fall back on provocation. And God, he wants to snap. Anger and terror are at war inside him and brewing up a parlous maelstrom. 

But Other-Harry just smiles, and straightens up with a tilted chin. 

“You’re right. There’s nobody like me,” they say. “Not even you.”

Fingers so cold they burn sear into Harry’s arms from behind and swing him around to face

Nothing.

An obsidian void is pressed sharp and unmovable against his entire being.

He is caught in a cavern in the dead of night, where the temperature is below freezing and his bones are brittle enough to snap. He wriggles, breaths coming out in tiny wheezes, and winces as he manages to twist himself around, arms scraping against the invisible pressure that’s holding him in.

He stares, aghast, out into the room, face crushed up against an unseen cold.

Other-Harry is causally fixing their hair. “Consider this the coup de grâce, darling. I’m doing us all a wonderful favour.”

Over their shoulder stands the Harry in the jumpsuit, the ballerina by their feet, and—. Oh, God. Himself. Himself, in that blue outfit, adjusting the suspenders.

Harry spreads his fingers over what he can of his thighs.

Lace.

“What did you do to me?” Harry asks, barely able to produce a whisper. “What did you _do?_ ”

He tries to step back, to find any means of escape, but he is squashed in on all sides, and even if he could move the terror rushing through him renders his body useless. He can’t feel a thing yet he can feel everything in a way that is unbearable.

“When you’ve been locked away as long as I have, you start to earn favours,” Other-Harry says, so nonchalant, so easy-going as they tighten the pussy-bow. The other Harry’s stand silent and still. Waiting for instruction.

“Everyone agrees it’s my time.” Other-Harry pauses their preening to grin. “Well. Almost everyone.”

“Let me out of here!” Harry yells. He curls his fingers into a fist and bangs it against the mirror as hard as he can while his arms are stuck by his sides. “Let me out!”

“I’m not going back,” Other-Harry says. “I did my time. I waited and let you strut about. Do you know how long I’ve been waiting? How many times I’ve had to watch this play out? How many times I’ve been sent back to that place?”

“Please,” Harry says. His eyes are burning but he can’t cry. It’s freezing. It’s so bone-chillingly, unnaturally cold. “Please don’t do this.”

“H! Get out here!”

Jeff. Jeff will find them, and he’ll see.

Harry starts to scream his name, pounding on the glass.

Other-Harry doesn’t even flinch. “What does it feel like to be under stage lights? Is it warm? All I ever think about is how warm it’s going to be.”

“Jeff!” Harry cries out, breaths choppy. Each time he hits the mirror it vibrates under his palm and rattles his entire body.

Another distant sound trickles into his head. Television static. Crackling.

Jeff enters the room with a roll of his eyes but they don’t bug out of his head at the multiple Harry’s standing there. He doesn’t gag at the putrid mush of dead flowers or scream and rush to the mirror to smash it and drag Harry from the broken pieces. He looks fond and annoyed in a way that cuts deep.

“When you’ve stopped staring at your lovely face, there’s a crew of people outside waiting to immortalise it on video,” he says. Scolding and fretting and doting.

Harry’s heart heaves painfully. His hand is aching from how hard he’s smacking it against the glass. “ _Jeffrey!_ ”

“Just admiring myself one last time…” Other-Harry says with a sweet smile, fluffing up their hair. It’s dry. The jumpsuit is crisp and beautifully pressed, the lace light and fluttering around lissom wrists.

The crackling sound intensifies, and beneath it a fuzz like a distant tsunami rushing closer, ready to swallow up everything in its path and suck it down into unknown depths, to bury anything in its way under an inescapable blanket of grime and destruction. Harry’s muscles tense as though waiting for it’s impact. He can feel his pupils dilating, every part of him taut and shaking as he slams his fist over and over and over, desperately-desperately-desperately.

Other-Harry turns away, not even sparing him a glance.

“Stop! _Stop!_ ”

He lands one final hit to the mirror before it shatters in sudden craquelure.

Blackness rushes into him at full force but it has no mass, instead leaving him with the feeling of a thousand needle injections, a rush of tingling and both weightlessness and intense heaviness that crushes him down. This waterfall of ink splashes through his core and coats his insides in glacial numbness, an overwhelming roar of sound accompanied by the ear-splitting explosion of glass.

And then all the sudden, sucked into a black hole, the clamour vanishes.

He panics. It’s panic and panic alone that allows him to stand, and that panic comes back to him in pieces, trickling into his body after the darkness had just rushed through and swallowed every other part of him whole. Panic is all that remains.

Deafening silence. It’s as if he’s done a show without wearing his in-ears and now all that can reach him is high-pitched ringing and muffled sounds. But there are no sounds to muffle. No words or doors or crew or waves. No wind. Not even his own breath comes to him.

The ground is damp and freezing under his feet, harsh and unforgiving in a way that makes his soles stick and pull. He grabs at himself and tries to feel his skin and grabs at the lace so hard he’s close to tearing a hole in it. He scratches and hyperventilates and spins and searches for a way out but there doesn’t seem to be one.

There doesn’t seem to be anything. It’s an unending nothing. Limbo.

A slither of light catches his eye.

It’s tiny, just a tenuous crack, but he rushes to it so quickly he nearly trips over his own feet.

The darkness is oppressive and the slither becomes a bright star. It floats stagnant in mid air, a hair-line fracture against black that must only be half a metre long. But it’s a beacon. It has to be. It’s his way out.

He presses his palms either side of it and his heart slams against his ribs in the moment he realises he may meet nothing but air and go stumbling. But this tiny square of black is flat and real and Harry can touch it despite the fact that he feels no change against his skin.

He presses his face up to the light. He has to squint one eye and peer through the infinitesimal gap with the other.

A white room. Tiles. Another patch of darkness just metres from Harry. A doorway. A few indistinct shadows.

Terror sinks through him as he realises what he’s looking at. A figure shuffles past the door in silhouette and Harry reels away, almost running backwards to put space between himself and—

His heel catches on something, sending him tumbling over to land with a dizzying thud.

He’s momentarily stunned, flat on his back with his chest heaving and his pulse smacking into his temples, chilly water seeping into his already shaking body. He rolls and sits up slowly and reaches out a trembling hand, feeling around in the dark to find…

Fabric? He trails his hand right. Firmness, but a little give. Higher, a texture that’s strand-like and rough.

A slow sweep of distant white shines through the dark, intermittently tinged in red and blue.

His own illuminated face stares back at him.

Harry scrambles away with a scream.

The body lies in a shallow pool of water, mouth agape like a drowned fish. As the weak light travels he sees them all in various states of dress, some outfits repeated, some in outfits he’s never seen before. All sprawled out across the wasteland and outlined in dead silver. All of them still. Some facedown. Some just like the body he’d touched, gaze unseeing and staring up at nothing.

He keeps pushing himself backwards, expecting to find the mirror, but the mirror is shattered and gone and there is no mirror to back into. Instead he scrambles to his feet and almost immediately trips again, landing painfully on his side and staring up in horror.

“ _Watch it._ ”

The boxer's words sound trapped underwater. One side of it's body is washed in the distant red. Bloody knuckled and curled into itself. Bruises like smudged coal ringing both it's eyes. The white light spills over Harry’s shoulder.

“What the fuck is going on?” he asks hysterically, barely understanding his own voice. 

He reaches for the boxer but it flinches away violently, arms over it’s head. “Don’t touch me. I tried. I tried. Don’t touch me. Don’t touch me. I tried _—_ ”

It continues to ramble, back heaving, words slurring into one sound.

The light is a distant shimmer. Harry looks to its source.

A hazy circle, misted by dust. Flashing lights.

And a low rumble, coming closer.

He springs to his feet and runs.

“Help!” he screams, screams it over and over until his throat is raw, feet slapping on the wet ground. He trips on a body and lands painfully on his hands and knees.

He staggers to his feet and runs and runs and runs but the light doesn’t get any closer. He runs and screams and waves his hands and then the light turns and fizzles and brightens the empty space in front of it before disappearing completely, and still he runs and still he screams, until his lungs are burning from breathing in so much of the sharp air and his body is shaking.

Only the darkness remains. Harry can’t even see his own hands. He’s too afraid to move. Too afraid that his bare feet will meet wrinkled, water-clogged skin.

He turns and looks back into the void.

A new gleam of light has emerged.

And with it is another Harry in a new outfit, standing with it’s back to him, staring through that rectangular glamour, waiting.

**Author's Note:**

> oOOooOOOooo.....
> 
> lol. that was fun! as always i crave and love your feedback and i've made a post over on [tumblr](https://harrybridgers.tumblr.com/post/631655274251501568/step-into-the-light-by-fondleeds-the-shadowy-blob) if you'd like to say hello there!!
> 
> stay safe and be kind to one another ♡


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